


Sweet Like Honey

by kovisk



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Bottom Credence Barebone, Daddy Kink, Feminization, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Murder, Inspired by Hannibal, M/M, Possessive Original Percival Graves, Protective Original Percival Graves, Sensitive Credence Barebone, Smitten Original Percival Graves, Soft Credence, there's a lot of daddy in this man shit, this is so fucking explicit yall, uh i mean enjoy though cause there's not enough good kush with these two, yall gonna be in for a ride of your life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 22:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12308784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kovisk/pseuds/kovisk
Summary: He still had it somewhat, but a new identity was to be ushered, because he'd been careless, because he'd slipped up for a doe of a boy with dark hair and poppy lips soaked in opium, drug enough for them both.





	Sweet Like Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dontyoudarestiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontyoudarestiles/gifts), [pineapplebreads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplebreads/gifts).



 "You want to talk about the deaths." Graves repeats, words turning themselves over on his tongue as he leans back into the armchair of his study; an old dark emerald thing with gold trimming that could only match these specific curtains in this specific room in a sense that didn't make it the furnishing look downright ugly as well as shockingly expensive, even if the latter was more or less true. It was more a lounge in aesthetics, chestnut wood of bookcases entwining themselves against the interior walls. An assortment of vases and sculptures placed in them, all with expense attached to them but also each easily replaced. Percival Graves is an intelligent man after all, patients can get violent and to a point he encourages it, caters for those with criminal intent and aggressive tendencies as much as he does those that lack signs of heading to it. He has been in this game a good enough while to know how to play it.

Credence isn't such a patient, he's hunched into the side of the leather chaise, knuckles less white than the first meeting yet gripping at the side somewhat, legs over the front facing him, still tense and still not yielding to the " _please make yourself comfortable_ " he offers every session after the " _good to see you my boy_ " and the hand on the nape on his neck. Something tested on him post establishing the fact he's affection starved: one of many traits proving it's noticeably how he wouldn't look him in the eye- instead the gaze pointed down to fingers that would hold onto the cushioning of the sofa like some form of hook to a lifeline. Another the audible rush of air inhaled at individual things, the term ' _my boy_ ' being one of such things- an endearment said boy practically leans into. Inhales in the same manner should he receive a smile, one belonging to graves which makes him part of a small spectrum of people they are reserved for. To say he wasn't indulging himself in the power play of things would be a lie- but through talent and practice Graves, is calculated, lies well.

"I suppose they have become more frequent: though the waters have always been dangerous around here, as prosperous as they are in the industry. Should you be more unsavoury, no doubt it would be- and has been useful for becoming a veil between those on the outside of the crime and the true nature of a victim's demise. It's hardly a surprise those harbouring malicious thoughts may use it for deeds left best sunken amongst them waters."

 

It's often he works alongside crime investigations, knows such people well and sharing to an extent without breaching anything sacred to himself or others is a good way of obtaining more of the boys' trust- thrives off the progress he's making with it, the change in Credence around him. He picks his tea up in his hands, fingers curling around a heated white ceramic, herbal scent engulfing and takes a sip, looking over the top to the figure sitting, gingerly taking this as a gesture to sip his own brew. The exchange brings a curve to his lip, the murmur of a snake hissing in agreement to his thoughts, want's to coerce more of this.

 

"You can answer or talk on the matter of whatever you want to, you have my word, it's just between you and me Credence." Putting the cup back, heat too much to keep in his grasp at the moment, Graves places a hand against the black fabric of his trousers on the inner of his thigh- legs in a spaced apart position and turns attention back to Credence. "Though pray tell my boy, what is it that interests you on the subject?"

 

In the whole two months Creed had been there, he's cried a total of _eight_ times, not counting the one currently. Which isn't even really crying, he's just sniffling and letting the tea mug scald his cold palms. His palms are always cold, so is his body, like a branch in the wind. Shivering and icy, and while his car is a Lincoln, (really it's his mother's) but despite it's superb heating, and heated seating, the chill clung to Credence’s bones. A bone deep chill that left him aching, even curling into himself when set in Mr. Graves plush leather chairs, large and Credence feels safe in them, the smell of whiskey perhaps, and spice linger in the room, heady, it's almost intimate with the fire crackling next to him. Mr. Graves has always been kind, whiskey gold eyes, a soothing timbre, wise and intelligent, but while Credence was always attracted to wit, Mr. Graves was also very distracting. Attractive, palms splayed out when he gestured, Creed found himself watching Mr. Graves' hands rather his face much of the time.

But Mr. Graves always gave a soft, knowing smile when Credence would snap his eyes back up, right before staring into his tea mug in embarrassment. Now's no different, two months later, but from Credence's talk to his social anxiety, and abandonment issues, he's found it almost lull when they meet now, conversation straying from Credence's lonely tendencies, now to Credence's interests, books, mythology, old psychological thrillers. A particular topic that made Mr. Graves' eyes flash, glinting dangerously while his mouth smiled and leaned forward, suddenly interested in what kind of movies of that genre Creed watched. It was a conversation that tiptoed around Credence's admiration to the works of a killer, afraid Mr. Graves would sneer, or look at him in disgust at such a mention.

 

But instead he nodded along to Credence's input, smiled softly, genuinely, and added his own thoughts on their shared taste in this genre. Credence while not too surprised with that info, did feel a little in awe when Mr. Graves offered a leather bound book on Lima Syndrome, and another, thinner copy book on Stockholm Syndrome, from his own book collection adorning the walls of the office. Credence spent his whole weekend flipping through the pages, taking down notes on his wall and in his own journal. A familiar sense of heat coiling as he watched movies in the dark to pretty women following behind the bloody footsteps of their would be killers, finding calm and safety in such sinners, knowing those same hands that have killed, were used for pleasure on their own bodies. Their next session is spent half involved with Credence's, albeit nervous and hesitant, confession on how he seems to find a similar peace of mind with those killers significant other, how he can relate, without ever being in their situation. Mr. Graves doesn't seem perturbed in the slightest, he simple drinks his tea and smiles reassuringly, explains in length about empathy and clairvoyance, and Credence feels himself melt into the leather chair, and again fall a little more in love with Mr. Graves and his voice of reason.

Twice in the beginning he was offered tea, to which he declined both times, but was given a bottle of cold water despite his fruitless attempts at being too well mannered. And simply after that, Mr. Graves seemed to catch on, after making his own cup of whatever he chose, tea here, coffee there, an Irish coffee he'd said before with a wink and Credence had to grip to his chair in case he simply melted away at the teasing. He'd return with a mug of hot chamomile, not too hot, not too cold, somehow always just mild enough. And Credence found himself smiling watery into his mug while Mr. graves crossed his legs, held his own mug in one hand easily and gestured with his other. Soothing voice calming Credence as if he was a spooked colt. A colt with gangly limbs and always anxious, it was pretty much what Credence was. Although Mr. graves never seemed to tire of Credence getting worked up. Credence with his head bowed, and fingers curling tight on the armrests, breathing stuttered out while he tried to suppress his trembling. Mr. Graves would always say his name, a soothing hush almost, soft and gentle, a firm but gentle hand on his bony knee.

 

"Credence, look at me." and how could Credence deny Mr. graves that? If Mr. Graves asked credence to drink poison from his mouth Credence is pretty sure he'd be willing to do even that.

 

Mr. Graves would draw in Credence, uncross his legs, much to the displeasure of the coiling warmth in his belly. (Really it's not displeasure, it's utmost pleasure, but Credence doesn't think it's very patient professional to be aroused by your psychiatrist doing such a simple action as uncrossing his legs.) Speak softly and place his palm on Creed's knee, thumb rubbing softly, and talk down Credence from his dizzying and painful high. Now Credence sits here, hands warmed with his mug, and licks his bottom lip in thought, the deaths were frequent now, splayed on his television back home at dusk, when Credence would triple check his locked door, and then check all the windows, and swing back for the door and security system.

Paranoia eating at him, anxiety running rampant. How late at night when the hush of the wind and the rain, the soft white noise of a movie in the background, he wished he was with Mr. Graves. Intelligent, quick witted, sly humored Mr. Graves, who was surely meticulous, making sure he was safe in his fortress of a home. Unflappable, defiant, an immovable object, like a cliff face in a storm. Credence, bit his bottom lip, teasing an already tender spot, tasting the swell of blood and licking it away before he made eye contact again with Mr. Graves, giving a shy smile as he moved to straighten his posture. Wanting to be as debonair as Mr. Graves, with his legs apart, one hand on his thigh, and oh. The warmth curled in his belly again, making his toes curl in his shoes. He opted for staring again into his mug. The warm amber shining gold in the firelight.

 

"I'm, nervous, a lot," Credence tried, and failed at explaining. "I'm home alone so often, and you know how I get when I'm alone," Credence glanced up, a shy smile again, and Mr. Graves simply nodded, a knowing look.

 

"I have such a fascination with all my thrillers, that I forget they aren't always Hollywood biting, they're real, and frankly, terrifying." Credence worried his bottom lip again, Mr. Graves earlier reassurance, and pet name dissolving into the background as Creed's paranoia clawed its way back, sucking on his bottom lip Credence hunched his shoulders in. The feeling of being watched ten fold, trembling slightly with the sudden cold sweat.

 

"Do you think I could have your number?" Credence blurted out, but in more a whisper rather. Feeling he needs to justify, Creed stumbles, "as, as a precaution? I don't have anyone really close for neighbors, and it'd be nice to just talk to someone before I sleep." Credence murmured, hoping he wasn't coming off too brazen with Mr. Graves. If Mr. Graves had understood Credence's fascination with psychology, he'd surely understand Credence's need for safety and reassurance, right? That Credence found both a peace of mind, and sanction in Mr. Graves himself, in his voice, his smile, in his intellect. Oh how Credence hoped he would understand. Licking his bottom lip again to staunch the droplet of blood, he dared to look at Mr. Graves again, face highlighted softly in the warmth of the fire.

 

Graves has watched Credence blossom under his arm, became enthralled, wrapped round his finger like the gold bands of metal he wears. They serve little purpose, only stand as materialistic goods, his own want, his wealth formulated. People tend to be much of the same, categorized by trivialities, one as cliché and boring as the next. Often he shields his grimace, distaste of people through cultivated expressions, an array of faux emotions portrayed that let him slip by amongst the gaggle of people. Credence was perhaps the first to truly invoke intrigue: in the way humans have sought out other life he'd sought out someone who could really indulge him. From accepting the number exchange to inviting Credence round the objective's stayed the same. Working him into the palm of his hand, sowing into the lining of his skin a need to be with his Mr. Graves, to depend on him, to love him. Somehow weaving reciprocation into the lines, finds warmth in such endearment, wants more of it even when he's warned of the incoming storm, Credence his beautiful lighthouse. Lips red and plump- broken in the middle: no doubt tasting of metallic tones amongst the fragrance he's displayed on his skin and the herbal esscence of Graves' tea that flitters through the rooms it's almost like a mark. Which is when he decides to take Credence with him.

 

_France, 20:46_

 

He doesn't so much flinch at mirrors like the people touched by self hatred and water distortion between glass, it plays no part of his pride in its grasp. He does stare. Unnerving and unbowing, like some well regarded statue that's found a crack in it's marble: more fittingly one that's come to look at his legs cursed in ivy and moss- realising nature has taken it's course and being damned that it was too ignorant to notice beforehand. The stubble straying across his face is necessary precaution, but it's growing much more than he would have intended to let it if not, for their leave. In the last handful of days it'd grown thicker and more bristly quicker than he'd anticipated it could, a dark hedge in the wake of where he was once clean shaven, so (god forbid) unkempt. Wherever he was whether on the perches of Dover, City of Angels or a rocky isle south of Dublin: Percival Graves was notorious, achingly so, for looking put together. For taking care of his appearance and subtly flaunting his wealth amongst a sense that made his mere presence command prestige and authority. He still had it somewhat, but a new identity was to be ushered, because he'd been careless, because he'd slipped up for a doe of a boy with dark hair and poppy lips soaked in opium, drug enough for them both.

The notion of getting caught had slithered across a couple times. He'd been close in Dover, five or so years back when but careful manipulation and implication of doubt hidden amongst a rather golden bunch of circumstances placed one of his patients close enough to the crime for him to feign the attacked victim. A nick in the upper chest small enough of a price to pay for leaving free, nobody finding it in themselves to blame the well mannered psychiatrist traumatised in such an affliction for leaving shortly after. Graves had counted for this possibility, kept his money and inherited wealth in various saving accounts, accessed a couple regularly. Kept secrets for the right people in Europe, satisfied his own taste for dancing against death with accumulating promises and money for the unsavoury and extremely rich- two synonyms often forgetting they are such. But he hadn't counted for Credence, for becoming so lax and reckless that he could be suspect. A consumer becoming the consumed, by Asmodeus, by desire, by indulgence in his Credence. His beautiful boy, as susceptible as he was soft, wistful looking. Who told him of the comfort he found in his arms, of the solace he provided, who looked at killers and wanted them to whisk him away to care for him in their blood stained hands. A setback to an extent but worthwhile, to whisk away Credence and care for him in his own.

 

He has to pick up documents from Pigalle, being forged by a friend indebted to him- one of the many he hopes to collect amongst the next month or so. Will have to bribe him for some of Credence's part but it's little matter, so long as the boy can't be tracked whilst they're on the run. He's been shown as Graves' son so far, 'narcoleptic, sickly ill,' he'd come up with as Credence slept on his shoulder en-route, influence of the drugs, head lolling, a sore state mind you but the people were sweeter, and when the boy would rub his nose into Graves' jacket for warmth they only pitied the kiss he'd place on the forehead. Lest to say he was thoroughly enjoying himself. 'He wanted to go to France since he was young- didn't you my boy?' Ushering a whiney 'mm' into his shoulder and what was taken as a nod. 'As a father, I would like to give him that at least.'

But now the idea, played about isn't such a great one: this is exactly who authorities will look for, whenever Credence's parents finally pay enough attention to look amongst themselves and realise his absence is more than the trivial overnight leave. The excuse of a friend's house will hardly last long, Graves knows there is too few of those for that one, yet thrives amongst the fact that he's all Credence has and potentially ever will have. People will be looking for the two of them, and as much as he loves the dazed whimper and how he's looked to for direction when ushering in a common 'my boy' in under the act; something in the dynamic is going to have to get changed, but he can worry when they reach there. It's a couple hours drive in the morning and they can grab food on the way at a cafe or diner. For now he has the bed and breakfast room they sit in is currently, situated on Parisian outskirts.

 

Graves combs a hand through the raven feathers, the boy still a little dazed from the morphine coffee, easy enough to weave into talks of tiredness and indulge with the warm pads fingers of his fingers. Smiles when Credence hums and curls into him, not as tense as before they'd left and he's dropped the dosage, let the boy start thinking for himself again. There's enough supply in his carry-on to do him fine if he needs more coercion, to make Credence more pliable again. The owners, a doting couple, had asked if they could lay out the sofa bed: declining would've raised more questions than not so it was set for Credence to take the actual bed and him the latter. But he finds it more pleasing here, with Credence's lithe limbs curled up in his lap as he leans against the headrest. With his finger tips dragging up and down, dusting against a pale leg, lips hovering at his ear when he speaks.

"You're doing _so well_ Credence, my sweet boy." Ponders, wonders to ask how he feels, a spooling pit of hydrocholric waves, acid burning at his stomach even daring to ask if Credence loves him yet, he will. Opts for something easier in current though, can bide time. "I'm so glad you've come with me."

 

 

Credence doesn't quite know when his infatuation with Mr. Graves began, and how he ended up being held so gently, lips brushing across his forehead, a soothing low timbre of a voice telling me he's been good. But he doesn't really mind how he got here, wherever here may be. The windows are opened, near transparent cream colored drapes, pushed aside, tied back with burgundy ribbon. It's not Mr. Graves manor, with her polished dark woods, and navy walls, the occasional splash of color; vibrant reds from paintings and bright blues from Mr. Graves on the wide sea, rigging the sails. Credence remembers, hazily, staring at those pictures. Tan skin, all laid out, white trousers, and a dark blue polo, sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar. Mr. Graves looked so at ease, in his element. With his strong stance, and tanned arms. It's a look, that Credence would think of when he finished watching yet another thriller. Under his duvets, in just a pair of lace. Black stark against his pale legs, tangled around his thighs.

Pushed down in haste as he works himself, gasping when lets a hand stroke down his chest, past his concave stomach, to grip his thigh. Imagining it was Mr. Graves touching him, hair washed, and skin glistening, just showered after another successful murder. Coming home to touch Credence, kiss him, fuck him. Creed pushes two of his fingers past his plush lips, glossy and peach pink from the lip stain he hides under his bed, (along with the lace underwear, and a pair of black thigh highs.) Sucks on them in desperation, as he works himself closer to the edge with his hand, hand slick and thighs trembling, his stomach tensing. Oh how Creed wishes that his fingers were something else, really someone else. Think about Mr. Graves pushing his fingers past Credence's lips, and Credence sucking on them, needy. Oh god, or Mr. Graves, pushing Credence to his knees, one hand in Credence's hair the other-. Credence whines high around his fingers, body tensing before falling lax onto his soaked sheets. He drags his fingers out slowly, body fatigued. He smells like sex, clean sweat, and the rose and peaches perfume he ordered.

 

Whimpers when his hand finally lets go, he's overstimulated, and tired. But now the idea of Mr. Graves leaves him burning up, in the worst way ever. Shame and guilt pulsing in time with his heart, feels the familiar heat of humiliation settle in his stomach. Kicks off the underwear and drags himself into his shower, glass cool against his palms, and tiles frigid. What would Mr. Graves think of him? If he ever found out? Credence doesn't dare think a second longer, already hates himself enough for it. For wanting to be like the women on tv, displayed in silk, with soft curls and soft mouths. He wants to be desired and held by a man, they don't even have to be a murderer or dangerous, Credence just wants to be held. Sniffles a little and rubs at his eyes, bottom lip split and trembling. He told himself before he'd stop getting misty eyed over situations like this, to stop falling in love with people he couldn't get. He lets the tears and blood from his lip mingle with the soap and water. Pulling himself out of the shower to curl under the sheets, cold and shivering. He doesn't dare turn on the heat, he doesn't deserve it.

The days when he's left alone, become more frequent, feels lonely and homesick, even though he's home. Wants to call Mr. Graves but doesn't want to bother him, finds himself crying again when Mr. Graves calls him around dusk. Voice soft, and Credence sniffles and brushes away his tears but Mr. Graves seems to notice, asks what's wrong in a voice that makes Credence want to whisper you. But he can't because then he'd lose Mr. Graves, and in truth Mr. Graves is all he really has. Besides the few and far between clipped and short calls from his mother, the occasional email from his dad, the person he sees the most is Mr. Graves. Mr. Graves speaks to him gently, as if to a spooked animal, and Credence sniffles but listens. Mr. Graves finishing with 'you can always call me, Credence, my dear boy'. Later that night Credence fingers himself in the black thigh highs, a pleading daddy whispered into the sheets. He showers again, but this time with warm water, turning on the heat, and watching a thriller to finish the uplifting night. Room warm, and he even wears lace under his soft white bathrobe.

 

The last thing Credence really remember is feeling giddy and warm when he pulls into the long drive way. The manor sprawling, and Credence often wonders what Mr. Graves' bedroom is like. Probably large, four poster bed, navy blue sheets, maybe maroon. Credence wonders what it would be like if he slept in those sheets, had sex in those sheets. Presses his palm between his legs to stem his reaction. It only gets worse when he reaches inside, his tea warm and feels tired halfway through. To which Mr. Graves looks concerned, something along of staying the night. The rest is a blur, and even more so is how he and Mr. Graves got to this room. The room is quaint, the bed surely a king, a daybed with made sheets on the other side of the room. Sleep still clings to Credence, the warmth of a body lulling him back under. But he wants to ask where he is, but his tongue feels like lead, mouth tasting of lemons and something sweet, with the undertone of a slightly acrid taste. But he ignores it in favor of the lips against his forehead. Credence blinks slowly, the room focusing after the initial haziness fades. Feels a hand brushing along his bare leg, the scratch of facial hair on his cheek, and he panics. Body and mind racing, he tries to kick himself out of the lap he's curled in, but his body still feels like it's moving through honey, slow and unfamiliar. Until a voice shushes him.

 

"Easy now, Credence. You're alright, my sweet boy. You're safe." And Credence feels his body relax. Tension easing out of his body, of course it's Mr. Graves. The hand around his leg pulls him back into Mr. Graves' lap and Credence goes willingly, curls in under his chin, feels his body melt against the broad chest. Fingers continue a teasing trek along his outer thigh, and Credence shivers, hears Mr. Graves hum, and the hand moves to his other thigh, the broad palm resting on the inside and Credence gasps. Tries to tuck his face into Mr. Graves neck, because this is exactly what he's dreamt about. Wants to have. He vaguely remembers being kissed that night, and with a surge of confidence and arousal kisses under Mr. Graves jaw, mouths there, feeling the scratch of stubble burn his tender lips. Whimpers softly when Mr. Graves' hand pushes through his hair, noses into Mr. Graves' neck, and tries to curl in closer. Suddenly greedy for touch.

"Good morning sir," Credence whispers, kisses the stubble again because he likes the tingle it leaves behind. And perhaps it's not morning; the skies are hued in their bruising purples already, but saying goodnight makes Credence ache for a reason he's not sure. He doesn't want to sleep when he's just woken up, not when he finally has this. Mouths again at the jaw, and curls in impossibly closer.

 

Graves is thankful that Credence can be lulled back with his voice as quick as he begins to thrash about. Doesn't have to think about the potential mess if he refused to calm down, instead enjoys Credence's lips at his neck, warm breaths and tender skin pushed against him. Softer than his rough hands, smoother, raspberry against pale mellowed peach that melts against him. Plush and hungry lips dragging themselves across in short breaths come a surprise, but so welcome, feels warmth pool in his mouth and catches Credence's ear when he murmurs. "You're such a sweet boy, such a polite little thing, aren't you?"

 

Moving his hand from the curls he thumbs at Creed's cheek in gentle strokes, light against the taut skin and bone. Uses his free hand to support Credence's body, places it under the curve of his ass which practically moulds to his palm. Uses the placement to push Credence up onto him: his boy still curled into his chest but allowing Graves to look up at his dewy eyes, batting lashes and the parted lips. Graves tilts his chin up, an angle below Credence differing from the norm but acceptable enough to drag his thumb down the cheekbone, sit that palm under Credence's chin and thumb his flushed bottom lip- pull about the scabbing skin with a sympathetic tut. Runs it, tip slightly damp with Credence's saliva, over the rest of the lip. Begins to push it in when he gets no resistance, watches him intently, cooing. "Baby boy, didn't know you were so eager for this, what on _earth_ are we to do with you?"

 

Credence feels the familiar warmth settle low in his belly, burning up while his skin is in gooseflesh. Being called a sweet boy, polite, makes him tremble, and the thumb in his mouth he sucks on. A little desperate, a little needy. Curls his tongue under the pad of the thumb, mouth full. Tastes the sharp tang of whiskey, but it's what he's desired. Always wondered what Mr. Graves would taste like, feel like. His fingers curling over Mr. Graves' broad shoulders, whining around Mr. Graves' thumb. Feels a little lightheaded, dizzy. It's his dreams come true, when he's under his sheets, fingers in his mouth. But now, now it's real. Now Mr. Graves is calling him his boy, telling him he's been good. He wants to be called a _sweet_ boy, a _pretty_ boy, he wants to be pretty for Mr. Graves. He wants to be in lace and dressed in silk for him. Curls in closer, and Mr. Graves pulls him close, the hand under his ass squeezing. And Credence feels his eyes flutter shut, letting the thumb in his mouth slip out. Mr. Graves brushes the thumb across his bottom lip and Creed smiles bashfully, rocks back against the hand. Credence bites the pad of the thumb cheekily, and blinks slow at Mr. Graves.

 

"Only eager for you, sir." Credence smiles softly, bites his bottom lip before murmuring, "I guess you'll just have to take care of me then, _Daddy_." Bats his eyes again, and hopes Mr. Graves doesn't choke him out for what he said. Kisses the pad of the thumb to sweeten the deal.

 

 

Credence notably blushes when he calls him Daddy. It's a faint thing, dusting his cheeks like the taint of cherry wine, enamouring and fragrant and Graves could completely lose himself in lapping it. In watching his lashes tug him in, watching deep brown eyes darting to his thumb. Ironically it's almost as pink, flushed from the nip of teeth, from the warmth of Credence's mouth- wonders how his boy would do with his soft lips around his cock, an idea that sitting on top of it all makes it almost too hard to not groan in requite.

 

"My sweet boy," he kisses Credence, damp thumb curling in the dark hair and fingers clenching, force enough to show Credence where he belongs, who he belongs with. The first time he's kissed Credence properly, tasting how he'd hoped, a palette of flavour, maybe even the very faint aftermath of artificial lipbalm flavour- a sweet strawberry- and Graves would like to hope to paint his mouth with the real thing some day and kiss the taste off. Wipes his tongue across lips that open too little too late, feeling the vibration of the whine he receives.

 

"Daddy _very much_ intends to look after you." He says, moves his hand out from under Credence, sits him on his thigh, skinny long legs curled either side of his broader one, looking more tan ned and muscular by sheer comparison alone. Lays a hand on his leg, palm spanning a vast majority of the width and gold ring glinting in the exterior lamplight he rubs it gently on the same spot of skin. "You're Daddy's pretty boy aren't you? And I won't let _anyone_ hurt my pretty boy."

 

 

Credence feels his mouth chase after Mr. Graves after he kisses him, whines high and soft. Lips tender and plump, rosy from kissing. The sweep of a tongue on his bottom lip, making Credence shiver. It's his first kiss, well, one he truly remembers. Feels the tingle in his bones, the warmth in his belly scalding, nearly as hot as the hand on his thigh. It's so broad, tan against his pale skin. Mr. Graves runs his hand up and down and Creed feels himself shiver again. Presses his hips down, so he's leisurely rocking his poorly concealed erection against the toned thigh.

" _Oh_ , Daddy," Credence whimpers softly, fingers curling tight against the muscle of Mr. Graves shoulder, his words settling over Creed in waves. Leaving him hot and needy. He licks his bottom lip, still a little numb, the taste of cherry lingers. Wants Mr. Graves to kiss him again, touch him between his trembling thighs. Presses down more insistent now on Mr. Graves thigh, the gold ring glinting, making Mr. Graves seem older, more mature, and it makes Credence _crumble_.

 

"I'm Daddy's pretty boy, _only_ Daddy's," Creed whines. "Won't Daddy touch me please? Please Daddy won't you finally touch me now?" Credence whispers, voice breathless, the hand on his thigh stilling and Credence whines at the lack of touch. Pushes down again and gasps when the friction pulls his revealing Versace.

 

 

The pleasure of having this willowed boy melded to his shoulder, is almost as dear to him as the keening, rocking into his thigh and Credence's eagerness at he pines for more from Graves, his daddy. As arousing as it is when it travels in whines the word cements Credence as his boy, his to touch and to care for, his only saving grace. The bird bone arms are soft against his skin with the hand curled round the white of his shirt- clenched around the edge between skin and shirt as it pulls the open three top buttons to the side. It's almost as if Credence is holding himself up by it, holding himself to Graves who drags his hand up and cups the bulge between parted legs. Fingers purposely slow to rise but press under his dick once they're there, pads rubbing through clothing.

 

"Is this what you want baby boy? Want Daddy to touch you _here_ , where you're getting wet for him? _My boy_ , are you _wet_ for daddy?" Leisurely, as if Credence isn't being pulled apart in his hands he moves it away, cruelly leaving the boy without reciprocated touch. Eyes the underwear below the grey top that'd been travelled in and wraps his hand around a hipbone beneath, thumbs with all his composure intact.

 

"Credence, darling boy" Graves muses, lips close to Credence's neck and moving. "I can do anything you want." Nails splay blunt at his back, thumb having stopped so his fingers can run their course. "But I want a kiss."

 

 

Credence nearly sobs at the loss of touch, the firm touch of fingers against his erection, fleeting and not enough. Leave him trembling and wanting, a whine caught in his throat. Needy, and high, makes him desire dizzy. His eyes catch on the sight of tan skin under the white button down, and leans down to kiss it quickly, ducking down and letting his lips drag across the smooth skin, the scratch of hair under his chin makes his breath catch, and body jolt. Breath warm in soft pants against the skin exposed, "Daddy I'm so wet for you, always Daddy," Credence whispers, the ache between his thighs near unbearable. Makes his voice breathy and soft, eyes wet and glassy, body burning up with every fleeting touch from Mr. Graves. "Even back in your office I was wet. I wanted you to touch me even then." Credence murmurs against the skin, lets his teeth drag a bit on an open kiss. Rocks his hips down again on Mr. Graves' thighs, breath shuddering, gasping at the friction. "I used to touch myself to you Daddy," Credence whispers, pulling himself back from Mr. Graves exposed collarbone, lips still warm from the sun kissed skin.

 

Hoping Mr. Graves will feel possessive over Credence, knowing that Credence touched himself, and longed for Mr. Graves even before. Creed's shoulders trembling, fingers shaking, gooseflesh as prominent as the aching bulge between his creamy thighs. Credence smiles, bashful still, cheeks rosy and licks his bottom lip, tender and plump from kissing Mr. Graves.

"Will you touch me _please_ , Daddy, after a kiss?" Credence asks, coy, leans in slow, and lets his eyes flutter shut. Rocks his hips down when he brushes his lips against Mr. Graves, feeling courageous and nips a bit. Whines a bit when he pressed down hard against Mr. Graves thigh. Feeling the warmth in his belly settle like embers igniting, desperate he presses his hips rocking insistently, " _oh_ , oh, please" Credence whimpers again Mr. Graves lips, kisses again and then again, wanting to feel the warmth. Sanction in the arms of Mr. Graves, curls his fingers around the nape of Mr. Graves neck, the soft hairs at his nape tickling Credence's palm.

 

 

At this push Credence is thrilling to watch, to feel the brush of his lips: warm and supple gasping in high tones against Graves' chest, coming back flushed and pink with a gloss from his tongue just to kiss him at his lips. He's washed over in a combination of adrenaline and arousal that seemingly mitigates the anxiety, pulls Credence out of the oyster shell he was clasped in during their first session. Graves finding himself drinking in every coquettish flutter of the lashes, whine, plead that comes saccharine like icing or french cream. The more friction at his thigh, the more the material feels tighter around his cock, though it's hardly a wonder when he's getting the kind of treatment pliant pearl limbs and a honey voice gives him. He could get himself off just at watching this; deny Credence till he's done and let the poor boy try to get away with canting his hips into the sheets whilst he waits his turn. Another time maybe, is patient enough just playing with Credence's proposition and the illicit things he's done thinking about him.

 

"Sweet boy, you're telling _me_ that whilst you drove me mad- having to watch such a pretty thing sit so docile and damaged without acting on anything- you were _touching_ yourself to me." True to all extent of implication but hardly anything further and hardly anything he'll tell Creed. Tingling a little at where he's been nipped, a good kind like when eating pineapple, he litters the edge of Credence lips with an open mouth, catching the bottom one before letting it go and repeating the gesture. Slips the hand placed at his hip between milky thighs to underwear, middle and index finger rubbing down back and forth at either side of the line of his bulge whilst his palm pushes the front.

 

"Wanted to kiss you, have you on Daddy's lap, make you come on the leather." Graves' movement is gradual, slow with intent to speed up, tsks at his neck. "Oh, _sweetheart_ , we're gonna have to sort that out." He angles his head down, free hand steadying Credence's neck whilst he kisses below his jaw, bites harder than the nips he's recieved, sucks the light skin in hopes of coaxing darker hues of colour, a mark. Breaks for a brief breath and "you hear me baby boy? _Nobody's_ going to touch you but _me_."

 

 

Credence feels the words jolt through him, feels his stomach tensing. Body strung taut like violin strings, waiting for Mr. Graves to pull and pluck until Credence is hitting the high notes. He's not very far now, feels his body tremble, his calves aching, his thighs clamped tight around Mr. Graves'. The hand their cupping him, stroking, but it's not enough, it's too much, it's almost unbearable. But Credence doesn't want it to stop, he wants more. Needs to be touched finally, kissed and bit, bruises on his thighs like the brand on his neck. The teeth sinking into his cream white and petal soft skin. The hand between his thighs squeezes minutely and has Credence whimpering, crumbling, torn under like sand in a riptide. "Only yours, Mr. Graves sir, only belong to you" Credence sighs, chasing after Mr. Graves mouth. Letting his lips brush against the stubble on Mr. Graves' jaw. Feels the pin pricks making his lips tingle, already tender and raw. Feels like he's being exposed, and split open like a peach.

Wants to be devoured by Mr. Graves, hands cupping him, pulling him apart, while he spills.

 

Gasps soft, breathy moans a lilt higher than before. " _Mr. Graves,_ please," voice wavering, courage slipping now that he's under Mr. Graves control, "won't you, won't you fuck me?" Credence ends it on a breathy whisper. Shy now, and curling in despite rocking his hips up into Mr. Graves hand; warm and broad and just enough pressure to make Creed feel it, but not enough to get off on. He wants something more, needs something more. Wants to see Mr. Graves naked, all lean muscle, and tan skin. Has an aching desire to kiss it, touch it, be held in return. He wants Mr. Graves to mark him, make his skin bloom in reds and purples. Wants to be Mr. Graves' canvas. Ducks again to suck a bruise into the exposed skin of Mr. Graves shirt. Eyes squeezed shut because Mr. Graves has sped up his touch; the stroke against his cock making him gasp, cheek against a broad shoulder, lips red and eyes glassy. Whimpers pitifully when he tries to rock up but the hand slows down if he does.

 

"Mr. Graves, please," Credence mewls. Fingers unbuttoning Mr. Graves' shirt, " _fuck me, fuck me_ Daddy, I've waited so long." Mr. Graves and his broad shoulders, and honey whiskey eyes. Credence licks a broad stripe along Mr. Graves pulse point, blows cold air on the mark and feels Mr. Graves shiver. Finds a secretive shard of pride when he gets a reaction from all collected and cool Mr. Graves. Kisses the mark and nips just to show off. The palm squeezing again having him whimper, fingers finally finishing unbuttoning and spreads his palm along Mr. Graves' ribs. Hot skin, and hard muscle. Credence cries a little at the touch, the feel, overwhelmed now. Just wants to be touched, to have his virginity stolen by handsome Mr. Graves. Wants to be his fully.

 

 

His lips curve at the confirmation of his thoughts: feels an impulsive vibration in the bottom of his gut, a swirling pit of satisfaction. Credence's hand feels cold on his abdomen, a little clammy and jittering with anxiety but the contact is welcome, like a healers hands. Like Credence's lips and the stroke of his fingers burn away at everything else that doesn't concern them. The city of lights may be called as such but it has been eclipsed in this wake. Leaning back on his elbow gives Graves a better viewpoint, rests himself against the plush peach of the headboard; he can see the halo of the lamplight echoing at the crown of blackthorns, body highlighted with synthetic light inside an ever dimming room and still coming to a haze of gold. He wouldn't be wrong to do it angelic, to call Credence a thing of biblical proportion doused in flushed colourings, smattering at the lips, the neck, the cheeks. There's the stripe that Eros licked across his neck: he's sure it's Eros, infatuation personified with the sweet scent lingering at his slim body, with the dark eyes and the sex laced into his whines. The ones that sound like the hand back on his skin, like lips at his base without Credence moving his position, no movement more than the rock of his hips. The stripe that tingles with each breath coming to meet it, even Percival can't put it off much longer.

 

"It's okay sweetheart, I've got you. I'll fuck you baby, just how you want." He assures, voice low when he takes his hand out from between the warmth of Credence's thighs, almost reluctant at doing so: moving from the jutting of hips that call for his touch as much as pitched whimper do. Soft bulge out of his grasp he misses the authority it gives. The kind that feels like a baptism at his skin, like Creed's tongue sensual against his neck. His fingers are a little damp from pre-cum but it's no matter, drags the digits over his tongue without breaking eye contact, complacency sitting well both times.

 

The discarded shirt utilised to wipe his own saliva away he cards a hand through Credence's hair, looks into his eyes when he murmurs "you've been such a good boy for Daddy haven't you?" and pushes the falling strands away from his forehead. Shuffles limbs to align himself to Credence's legs, motions him to lay on his back, "baby, lie down" an encouragement. The heeded action provoking 'good', an admiration. He kisses along his leg, up from the calve, in soft application, stopping at the thigh.

 

"You've been such a good boy for Daddy haven't you?" He prompts before licking at his thigh, a favour returned alongside the biting and sucking involved of leaving a hickey, repeats in multiple places across Credence's thighs. Graves almost wants him to be sore in the morning, to have something to be remembered by.

 

Graves is kissing higher up, where skin is wetter, between them saying "my _good boy_ , my pretty boy, just so _needy_ for Daddy." Dragging his finger at underwear much to the mixed feelings of it's owner, it hovers over where his hole is and slowly applies a little pressure, just enough to coax something out first to see what's being worked with. He smiles at the way the body reacts to his touch, how hips rock up as he clenches; teases "doubt you've ever been fucked before, have you baby boy?"

 

The brush of lips dust along his creamy skin. The scratch of stubble, prickling, leaving a burn in it's wake. Sensitive down there, between his thighs, along his calves. Soft skin, flushing pink with the rasp of stubble, a welcoming brand, a desire to have his thighs raw. The stubble from Mr. Graves leaving him burning up, a warmth in his belly, curling his toes in the soft sheets. Credence can't tell if this is torture or not. A finger just barely touches his soft bud, pressing down in earnest, and he whines because while he's touched himself there, in the showers, in bed, it's finally Mr. Graves doing so. And Credence wants to cry, when Mr. Graves pulls his hands back, he was so close to finally coming, falling apart under Mr. Graves' skillful touching, and obscene speak.

 

 

"Oh, Daddy, please. I just wanna _come_ , Daddy please," Credence whines, arching his back in desperation, bottom lip trembling, he's trying to be good he is. He truly is. But he's just so close, he just wants to come. Blinks away tears, and kicks his legs against the sheets, needy and desperate, keening when lips brush along his thighs. The underwear is damp, a spot from his slit, pre-come teasing against the soft fabric, and Mr. Graves so close. The sheets are cool, despite the room feeling stuffy, humid with sexual tension and burning desire. White cotton, cool to his burning skin. The whisper of sheets moving as Mr. Graves kisses along his thighs, and Credence doesn't know else he can do. Through it all, he's been good, and that's all he ever wants to be. Good. Good for Mr. Graves, for his daddy. Mentor, protector. He wants to be Ganymede, swept up in a flurry of storm clouds and lain on soft sheets and kissed and _fucked_.

He wants Mr. Graves, all underlying danger and debonair attitude, to have him. He wants to be Mr. Graves'. And only his. Credence has whined and whimpered and begged, but it's finally happening. His fevered dreams, and desire drunk fantasies, are forming themselves like stonework, cementing themselves right before his glassy eyes. Unshed tears, cling to his long eyelashes. That flutter against his rosy cheeks, while Mr. Graves kisses along his thighs, licks a broad stripe, before nipping and Credence can't help but gasp, writhing. It's too much, too unbearable. He can't possibly endure much more.

 

He wants to be good, he does. But he's so close, he can feel the release on the horizon. A burning hot white in the distance. Wrapped in Mr. Graves hands, in his arms, he's a peach, soft skin and pink, spilling between Mr. Graves' fingers. Credence bites his bottom lip, tender from kissing, and nipping. Heart thundering and hands clammy. Anxious and desire drunk, he just wants to be taken, fully. He blinks back tears, flicking a tongue out to swipe his bottom lip, and lord are Mr. Graves words debauched. Lewd. And Credence loves every second of it. Even though a part of Credence burns with aching desire to be spoken to like this, his bashful attitude slinks away. With cheeks flushed and mouth parted on a gasp. He's torn between begging for Mr. Graves to never stop, and whimpering to let him come already. "No, sir, never been fucked," Credence whispers, fingers curling around the nape of Mr. Graves neck, other hand resting against his collarbone, and shoulder. Tan skin and broad muscle. It's provocative, and even better from what he's dreamt of.

"Only on my fingers, Daddy, and only because I wanted it to be _you_ ," Credence bites his bottom lip, timid now that's finally said it. He's playing the coy card, but he has a notion that Mr. Graves likes him soft and reserved. He wants Mr. Graves to pull him from his shadow, swept up in storm clouds and lust. He wants to leave his dreary old self behind, he wants to taste danger and thrill of the chase on his tongue. But better yet, he wants to taste Mr. Graves on his tongue. He's thought about, going on his knees for Mr. Graves in his office in another session, nuzzling his cheek against a firm thigh, a mewl of

 

"Mr. Graves, let me please?" Spoken, just barely above the crackling of a fire. Credence is sure he'll have a chance later to get what he desires, right now he desires to be fucked hard and fast by his Daddy. Let's his index finger touch Mr. Graves' bottom lip, smiles when Mr. Graves kisses the pad of his finger, before biting down gently. Credence can't help but bite his own lip. Now or never, if he's going to try to get what he wants. Credence looks up from under his lashes, lets them kiss his cheeks. And takes Mr. Graves hand from his thigh, the one where he licked the pre-come off of, places the pads of Mr. Graves' fingers against his own lips.

 

"Fuck your pretty boy Mr. Graves, I always wanted to sit in your lap and let you take me in your office. I always wanted you to take my virginity, I never wanted any of the boys back home. They were never experienced, or as attractive as you, Daddy." Credence murmurs, looks up at Mr. Graves, and seals the deal when he licks the pads of Mr. Graves' fingers, sucking on them gently. Hollows his cheeks slightly, and curls his tongue under the fingertips, before letting them slip from his mouth, kisses them sweetly. "Mr. Graves?" Credence whispers debauched.

 

Like a parched man Graves drinks in Credence indulging his narcissism; so long stuck in the vast sands of mediocrity to come across something so lush, exciting like his boy who says exactly what he wants to hear, caters to him like a tailored glove. Words are enticing, makes the dry burn inside more prominent when he thinks about being his first: being the first to touch him like this, to see him spread out wet and needy, tend to desires. Likes to ponder on all the eyes that have glanced over his boy, drank in the sweetness and the plush of his body: young adults like Credence party, they move bodies provocative and he's wondered about what ones dare try to magnetise to Credence's. He's envy's plaything, digs fingers into his hipbone, bruising, wants every part of this body marked and fucked because it is his to mark and fuck. Wants to dress him in mesh and lace and show the wake where he leaves purple hues, the smattering by his thighs and at his hips and even leave some more whilst those who would threaten him look on. He's warm when Graves moves his finger down, gentler, a softer touch as he pushes his finger in, no fabric barrier this time, he's warm and slicked and clenches around with a gasp. Graves doesn't pull it out all the way but enough to get it to lubricate a little when he pushes it back in.

 

"Baby boy, just a little more okay?" He kisses Credence's lips, pulling yet careful not to tilt him at too much of an angle, small breaths echoing between each kiss. His voice is rough, low tendrils from the ache of his erection and the dryness in his throat. " _That's a good boy_ , want you to relax into it, sweetheart, like that." He kisses the skin of the adam's apple, smooth lump bobbing a little as he pumps into Credence, a couple before he pulls the finger out enough to put a second one in alongside it. Pushes them inside Credence slowly who litters his face with kisses fast and fleeting at his mouth, biting his bottom lip in the process and seemingly grasping for any part of Graves he can hold.

 

"It'll be a little different to fingers, but you're doing so well baby, you're almost ready for me to fuck you properly." He moves them in and out, a tempo slow enough in movement to prolong this, just a little more to get him ready. He would love to bring him over the edge like this, to get him to come on his fingers, beautiful lithe legs wrapping at his body, as he whispers him praises, chooses a faster pace and curls ever so slight inside. Wants to fuck him in a more detailed fashion, intricate. Would honestly drown to see those tantalising blown lips pleading when his mouth is at underwear, licking and kissing in the places that make his boy whine, keen and asking to be eaten out when he says "you like Daddy licking your pretty little clit, baby boy?" All prior to devouring much in the sense of a panther and it's writhing prey. Completely at his mercy, welling Percival's satisfaction, high pitched sounds and gasps as Credence is fucked on his tongue like the pretty thing adorned in silk and lace that he was born to be.

Thinking about it helps him to decide the trousers are coming off: bulge more than evident even before he unbuckles the belt and loses the excess clothing. The likes of his white Calvin Kleins lay a little damp on the pile accumulating at the floor, dick stiff and shining from his own pre-come, from Credence talking so darling and yet so dirty in a wonderful blend he still tastes at the tip of his tongue. "We're going to have to sort you out, aren't we my darling boy?" He mutters with a kiss to his bare chest, smooth and speckled like fawn pelts. Traces his finger up the outline of Credence's dick, hooks the index over the waistband and pulls it down, revealing the peach flushed skin and muscle doused in a gloss. He kisses each bit of inside leg that gets damp from the underwear, follows it down before casting it aside on the pile, it's messy but hardly ruined and no matter, he can certainly buy more now. Wants to see Credence in an array of textures and colours: one matching the black of his hair, soft and transparent in slight, others in the rouge hues that match his lips, baby blues and lilacs like the hickeys he wants to leave.

 

"Come here baby, show me how you'd sit on Daddy's lap." He holds out his arms open, in a manner that lets Credence move between them when he engages him, hovering to help with aligning him when he needs it. Credence's back feels too cool under his palm. Too much skin untouched will kiss at it later too, once he's done.

 

"You've been _so good_ I'll even let you come. You want that baby? You want to come whilst being fucked on Daddy's cock?"

 

 

The initial feeling isn't foreign per say, but it's better than anything he's ever done to himself. Granted he has done much, and for such a long time, but still. The sweet smell of roses, and grapefruit reaches him through his haze. The finger that presses into him slowly, gingerly, in a tender manner, is thicker than he's used to. Makes the sensation heightened, the soft lips pressing into his throat, words whispered softly, has Credence gripping the sheets tight. Not in pain but in anticipation and pleasure. It burns, but it's an echo in the back of his mind, lost among his desire drunk haze. Curling his lithe calves around Mr. Graves waist, trim but broad waist and it exposes Credence further. Makes this more intimate, and Credence can barely catch his breath when Mr. Graves is basked in soft warmth from the sunset. Silver in hair glinting in the sun's rays. Makes Credence feel holy somehow, like Mr. Graves can erase every last haunt that lingers. With his broad shoulders and his determined, hungry eyes.

Makes Credence feel like prey, caught, ready to be devoured. Makes Credence look away, it's too much to look at Mr. Graves directly, makes his dick ache in his underwear, the dampness there sticky and wet. Reminds Credence of when he'd get hard in Mr. Graves office, when Mr. Graves would roll up his sleeves. Expose his strong, tanned arms; arms that Credence wanted bracketing his body, pulling his legs apart, hands holding his waist while Credence sat in Mr. Graves' lap, filled to the brim by Mr. Graves' dick. But here? Credence can't _help_ but feel bashful, feel his body curl in, trying to hide despite Mr. Graves already pressing two fingers into him, fingering him slow. Pulling him apart like he's a peach, and Credence doesn't mind, loves it. He's close to spilling, spilling honey and want across his belly, tries not to come just yet, not when Mr. Graves is so close to actually fucking him. The thought makes him burn hot with want and desire, presses back, still bashful, against Mr. Graves fingers, wanting them to brush up against the spot inside him, the one that has him blinking back tears, mouth parted on a gasp, falling into a whimper.

 

Every few upstroke has him whimpering, but Mr. Graves barely lingers his fingers there, and it makes Credence desperate. He wants to feel Mr. Graves fully, wants to be full of Mr. Graves. Wants to feel the ache tomorrow, the burn in his thighs and small of his back, he wants to be a blank slate, canvas, ready to be painted. When Mr. Graves' pulls off his Calvins, stark white, a attractive contrast against his tan skin, makes Credence throw his head back and whine, high and needy, can barely look at Mr. Graves, legs twisting in the sheets, fingers curling tight. He's so big, and thick, and the size difference alone makes Credence wet, spill onto his abdonem, glistening pre-come. He's flushed pink, his dick aching and hard, arched against his belly. And he just wants Mr. Graves fucking into him, but then Mr. Graves is calling to him, and Credence stumbles to his knees. Trembling like like a fawn, soft skin rosy, and mouth bitten red.

It's skin to skin now, and Credence can't help but whimper, " _Daddy_ , Daddy, _please_ ." His legs folded on each side of Mr. Graves'. He feels soft and small here, with Mr. Graves all muscle and warm hands. Credence murmurs wantonly, "I wanna come on Daddy's cock, please wanna be full Daddy." Credence bites his bottom lip when he feels the nudge. Wriggles his hips slightly, eager to be fucked.

 

" _Slow_ sweetheart, slow baby boy. You're, doing so good for Daddy, darling. My good boy, so pretty sitting in Daddy's lap, aren't you my pretty boy? So _sweet_." Mr. Graves whispers, voice honey laced with something sharp, it's praise but it's so much more than that. It's heady and Credence grips Mr. Graves' shoulders, fingers pressing in sharp, little crescent moons. The words pressing him on, eager to feel Mr. Graves fully inside him. Credence sinks down slow, filled to the brim, Mr. Graves thick and hot inside him, and Credence does an experimental grind and he's throwing his head back.

 

"Daddy -- _oh_ , feel so good, Daddy, feel so _full_ ." It's all Credence can feel, the blunt head pressed against the sweet spot inside him. He feels so deliciously full, needy and mewls when Mr. Graves grips his hips, lifts him up like he weighs nothing and pulls Credence back down. The slow drag both torture, it's _too_ slow, but also because Credence feels _so_ full, so intimate with Mr. Graves inside him.

 

"Go ahead baby, show Daddy how much you want this. Show Daddy how good of a boy you are, darling." And Credence can't help it, he wants to be good, he wants to show Daddy how good he can be. How long he's wanted this, wanted to be Mr. Graves. Credence pushes up on his legs slow, thighs trembling, and muscles tensing in his belly, before he sinks back down. He whimpers all soft and greedy, when Mr. Graves meets his eyes, dark and pupils blow wide.

 

He looks proud, and adoring at once and Credence lets his eyes flutter shut and tilt his head back, " _Daddy, Daddy, Daddy_ " a soft, constant whimper falling from his mouth, _sweet like honey_.

**Author's Note:**

> this was an rp between my lovely girlfriend and me, and whilst feedback on 'picture book' by dontyourdarestiles and pineapplebreads were getting a bit of hate, (which they don't ever deserve). and from catching word that down in puerto rico issues come close to home, i thought it might be time to send this baby back in. and while i can't work much magic other than donating, i do hope this can give you some semblance of peace and to get your mind away for a bit. i was creed, and my girlfriend took up graves, each part is separated by two spaces. (also the pov changes so that's pretty easy to detect) 
> 
> so overall, percy's a serial killer and a psychologist (we really love hannibal can't you tell), his prized bloodline was renowned for decades, he left for ireland (im gonna first apologize but man i love the irish accents ok) and once the police were hot on his trails, he got out of doge and went back to america. where in america? we didn't have a designated spot really, just kind formed it around new england, if anything it's probably a small town in cape cod maybe. (there's a lighthouse bc im a slut for the sea and sailing) 
> 
> there's a lot of 'daddy' in this and percy's just into having creed me turned on by serial killers. i've always loved soft creed honestly, and masculine, dangerous percy. if you're truly wondering who wrote this fifty shades of pure sex, well it's just little ole me ;)


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